Better Places To Be
by the-original-lovelace
Summary: Everyone knows Isabela left Kirkwall after the Qunari were defeated and appeared three years later as if nothing had changed. But not everyone knew that something had. Set before the start of Act III. FEM!Hawke/Isabela


**A little Dragon Age II ficlet for you because who doesn't like reading more about the ever-enigmatic Captain Isabela?  
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**Oh and just to make it easier for you guys to distinguish which of my Hawkes I'm talking about, this story is about Deirdre Hawke.  
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**General Disclaimer:**

The characters in this story don't belong to me – though I often wish they did – but _are_ copyrighted to their respective owners so, let me make it clear that I will make _no_ profits off of _any_ of these stories. So, you know, please don't sue me.

**Personal Disclaimer:**

If you don't like _Dragon Age,_ (FEM!)HawkexIsabela_,_ or girlxgirl pairings in general than read no further. You've been warned in an effort to save both your time and mine.

Oh, and please remember that there _is_ a difference between a critical critique and a flame.

So, now that all of the unpleasantness is out of the way, please enjoy _Better Places To Be  
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She sank onto the barstool with a sigh, holding up a single finger for her usual. It wasn't like her to turn down a tumble but it seemed like accepting and denying them led to the same thing these days: namely her being plagued by the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that something or, more accurately, some_one_ was missing from the exchange.

Which was, of course, insanity. She was _Isabela_, pirate scourge of two coastlines, Queen of the Eastern Seas and, most importantly, tied to nothing and to no one. Or…at least she used to be.

The sound of the tankard landing in front of her nose made her start. "Keep them coming, Shorn," she said before taking a hefty mouthful of the heady brew.

Why did it have to mean something if, during the last few years, she'd taken progressively more women to her bed than men? Such things had happened before; like everything about her, her lascivious ways were as fluid as the tides.

And what did it matter if they were mostly brunettes with scholarly hands and petal-light skin? That was just what she liked, that's all. It was a phase. And they were…readily available and so was she. Wasn't she? She scoffed. Of course she was; Isabela was _always_ available.

And what if she searched every face she saw for eyes the color of sovereigns? She _liked_ sovereigns; they were her favorite color. She searched purses for them too; why didn't she analyze _that_?

Certainly it had nothing to do with _her_; it had nothing to do with anything. _She_ didn't matter; no one mattered. Not like _that_. _Never_ like _that_.

She sighed forlornly and nursed the pint resting between her elbows, not quite sure who she was trying to fool anymore or why she even bothered; there were at least a hundred leagues between her and anyone who cared, the only one who really cared.

_Damn that woman._ She thought bitterly before immediately relenting, her expression softening even as she thought of her. _For making me…want._

"You're lookin' mighty down, Isabela," Shorn said as she finished her second pint and signaled to him for another.

"That's because I am," she said, her voice carrying such a miserable lilt that it forced a frown to overtake her features. She didn't even sound like herself anymore; what _had_ that damned woman done to her?

"Doesn't seem like ya," he said offhandedly as he dropped the third pint at her elbow.

"What do you know about me?" she snapped, her tone bordering on acidic.

He shrugged, not perturbed by her outburst in the slightest, no doubt a skill he'd picked up during his years behind the bar. "Ya've spent 'nuff time here last three years for me ta know that much," he stared at her for a moment before returning his eyes to the tankard he was drying. "So…what's her name?"

"Whose name?" she asked distractedly, already lost in her thoughts once more.

"The one that drove ya here in the first place,"

She looked up sharply, a stinging retort already on her lips. The gall of him to even suggest that she, Isabela, was pining for anyone, pining for _her_? Of all the ridiculous, half-assed…truths.

She groaned and ran a hand through her hair. Gods, she was a fool of the highest – and most horrific – caliber. A miserable, love-sick fool. "Deirdre," she muttered as she downed the rest of her pint.

"Whatcha say?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Her name; it's…Deirdre," she said, barely able to keep the wistful quality from her voice.

He smiled softly and leaned against the bar. "It's a right charmin' name. Fit its' owner?" he asked offhandedly.

"It does," she said softly.

"Then what're ya sittin' in here for?" he asked. "Sounds like ya've got better places ta be,"

_Like where?_ She asked silently. _Her bed? Her side? Her…heart?_ She swallowed slowly, her throat tightening at the thought. She'd gone so long without anything meaning anything, with her world consisting of little besides her changing whims, and now…she didn't know where to start. She never did when it came to her.

"'Bela?" he said, making her look up. "If she's good 'nuff ta have ya this bothered after three years she's more'n worth goin' back for,"

She bit her lip and closed her eyes. She didn't know how to change…but Gods knew she wanted her. And, for now at least, that was enough. It had to be. "I…I've got to go," she said, flicking a coin up onto the bar as she crossed the room.

As her hand met the handle, she hesitated and turned back to him. "Thank you," she said quickly, before darting through the door and into the dark.

Shorn chuckled to himself before returning his gaze to the glass in his hands. "Luck be with ya, ladies," he said under his breath. "Sounds like ya'll need it,"

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**R&R if you please (or if you don't please)**


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